Our benefactors
by Logan T Huckleberry
Summary: Just a start to the first chapter of a possible short story. It seems a little verbose and at times less than free flowing, so I'd really like some constructive criticism on this one please. thanks in advance.
1. Prolouge

"_The Right man in the wrong place..."_

_Those words seemed so very old now, yet in an odd way they had barely left the cold thin lips of the mysterious stranger. That had always been the way though, ever since he'd first shown up back at Black Mesa. There was something about the way he spoke, something intangible yet so unsettling about how he curled his vowels and strained at syllables as if the language he spoke was known, yet not mastered, much like the knowledgeable but decrepit government translators he'd met at Mesa. Gordon did his best to look away from the suit , but he saw in his periphery an odd, quasi-contrived smirk. It was evident that his inability to meet the man's gaze was causing him mild bemusement, or just maybe something much darker. _

_Then again, of course it should. Gordon looked around further, if only to get away from that icy gaze. He and his counterpart were both stood in pure blackness, the idea of ignoring him was ridiculous. After all, who else would he talk to? The stranger was a singularity at that moment in time, and Gordon, reluctant as he was after all the woes that had befallen him at the hands of this man, knew that he must deal with him if he was to ever leave the void that was his prison, like it or not. There was darkness all around, what seemed like an endless void of absolute nothingness. He smiled drily as he realised what had been bothering him, other than the pale man's mocking gaze. If it was totally dark, then why could he see both himself and the stranger perfectly clearly? Keeping his face fixed, Gordon turned back, meeting the others stare properly for the first time._

_What seemed like an eternity passed, the pair stood motionless, total silence around them as they locked eyes. The stranger finally brushed his lapels and cleared his throat, as was his habit before speaking, finally looking away, perhaps more in charity than defeat. In reflection, Gordon was to realise later, that the only thing he really knew about him was that single mannerism, that most would find disconcerting, even infuriating, but was for some reason, almost reassuring, perhaps because it was his only real human trait... _


	2. Barney

Barney Calhoun woke up in a world of pain.

As his dust filled lungs lurched into life with a wheezing gasp, he took in his grey surroundings through blurred, tired eyes.

what the hell had happened to him?

He painfully lowered and pushed down his hands against the cold, debris strewn concrete that he assumed (or, at least, after some of the unreal events of the last few weeks), _hoped_ was the ground. Helping himself into a sitting position, broken memories of the previous 24 hours filtered into view like a corroded newsreel film.

He'd been with Gordon, he knew that Much. He chuckled slightly and coughed painfully as he realised darkly that there was getting to be what the astute, but well mannered would refer to as something of a..._correlation_ between Barney's physical health and being around Gordon.

Barney was astute, but lacked manners in his concussed and battered state, so simply made do with "dangerous ass-hole."

In his battered brain, a sudden image of city 17 exploding in a column of white hot plasma flashed, followed by the image of a massive, bloated grey _thing_.

Barney coughed again as he pulled himself grudgingly to his feet. An advisor, that explained the patchy memories. FUCK he hated those things. Like a tube of Colgate and one of those cheap, grey, miserable looking hot-dogs you buy at football games had consummated an abhorrent marriage on a stormy night.

Barney felt a slicing pain in his chest as he corrected himself:

_Used_ to be able to buy.

He smiled wistfully yet grimly as he drew his 9mm pistol and checked its ammo. He never thought he'd miss that shit, but he did. All of it. He'd have the old world back any day for all its annoyances and imperfections. He'd spend the rest of his life grinning like a madman though 3 hour traffic jams and endless unfair mortgage repayments as long as he got to keep the rest of it.

His joints cracked as he made for the remains of what he assumed to be the front doors of whatever building his cover had been before the revolution.

Heavy Oak, Good quality, partially destroyed but obviously superior to anything you'd find in the average building. Probably meant he was close to the outskirts of the city rather than the centre. If there WAS still a centre, at that.

As his heavy storm-armoured boot collided with the wood of the main doors, Barney Calhoun was injured, hungry, and dirty.

He was also pissed off beyond belief.

Intelligent as he was, Barney Calhoun was also a man who operated on very simple terms.

And for him, Pissed off was enough.


End file.
